Underlings
by valiantmongoose
Summary: "The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars / But in ourselves, that we are underlings." In a world where Magnus and Alec never met, Jace is dead, and Valentine won the Battle of Brocelind Plain, disobedience means death. So what happens when Alec and Magnus meet and Alec fails to carry out his sworn duty: the elimination of all Downworlders? WARNINGS: homophobia & self-harm.
1. Chapter 1

The Mortal Instruments Series belongs to Cassandra Clare.  
The ability to brutalize the English language belongs to me.

**BLANKET WARNINGS: Self-harm, self-loathing, internalized homophobia, attempted genocide, and outright prejudice**

**This is very much unlike my AU fics - so if you're looking for light and fluffy, please reverse direction.**

* * *

With his hood pulled over his head and a dagger tucked into his jeans, Alec sneaks across the damp asphalt. He clings to the shadows, slipping silently along the street like a specter; a mere five inches away from various mundies walking home from a night on the town, but completely unnoticed. He twists and turns silently, slipping through alleys and hurdling one-handed over dumpsters without displacing a single piece of trash. Not even the rats, so well attuned to the sound of predators, have the foresight to scatter at the quick brush of his footfalls. He keeps his eyes downcast and his hands tucked deep in the pockets of his ragged jeans. There is nothing but a quick glance over his shoulder every few blocks to signal that he has even the slightest concern about anyone following.

He catches the subway, cramming himself into the smallest possible space in the back of the last car. He looks up only once, when a Mundie, who he can tell has a pocketknife up one sleeve and no fucking idea how to use it, stalks into his car, full of false bravado. He pushes himself away from the wall by his fingertips, scuffing his sneakers against the vomit-and-garbage encrusted floor and raises his eyes slowly. The Mundie steps back, startled, and then obviously thinks better of his decision. Alec melts back into the shadows, awaiting his stop quietly.

The station is empty as he makes his ascent to familiar ground. The junkies loitering in the alley near his exit give him a wide berth, understanding that he's the most dangerous person to emerge from the steps that night. He walks purposefully, taking side streets with no hesitation, and comes to a stop in front of a bar, hidden between a late-night vendor and a run-down movie rental boutique. There's a low, pounding beat blaring from inside, and a haze of smoke obscures the faces of the gangly teens that hang about the front.

One of the boys – a rangy teenager who's face is a ghoulish mask of chipped teeth, sunken cheeks, and wide eyes framed by greasy black strings of hair – steps toward him, arm outstretched. "Twenty bucks a blow," he says, his voice burbling up from his throat like the croak of a toad. He grabs at Alec's arm, intending to pull him closer, but Alec traps his wrist against the side of the building.

"Don't touch me," says Alec lowly. He can feel the boy's pulse stuttering under his thumb, and he applies a bit more pressure. The boy nods his head quickly and Alec glances behind him to make sure the others are watching. Then he lets go, letting the boy fall to the ground unaided.

Inside the bar, the lights are low and the music is loud, leaving very little room for polite conversation. The bar is lined with men, but there's a space at the end that no one dares occupy. Alec slides into the empty stool and pushes a twenty-dollar bill at the bartender. He picks it up immediately, black-polished nails tapping briefly against the counter, and comes back with three shots of whisky and nothing to chase. Alec tips back the shots in quick succession, savoring the burn and ignoring the way that eyes drift surreptitiously toward him to watch the slight rise and fall of his pale throat.

It takes a while for one of them to approach. He's big – bigger than Alec by at least half – and used to pushing people around. He leans against the bar, a maneuver designed to emphasize his biceps. On anyone else it may have been effective.

Alec gets up from his stool and makes his way toward the back of the bar. People move for him instinctually, though his eyes don't leave the panels of the beer-stained floor. As he rounds the corner to stake a claim in the single-stalled bathroom, he feels the weight of someone's eyes on the back of his neck. Hairs prickling and a cold dread spreading through his body, he whips he head around to seek out the source of his discomfort. His hand twitches toward his dagger, and though it looks likes a simple stretch – to relieve a cramp, perhaps – to the man accompanying him, Alec could have the dagger in someone's throat and be out of the bar in the time it would take to scream. There's a brief flash of yellow and a rustling of fabric in the direction of the unsettling stare, but after a quick shake of his head Alec finds the corner is empty.

It takes a few seconds for his new friend to follow him into the bathroom, giving him time to slip the dagger from his back pocket into the sleeve of his sweatshirt. He unbuckles his pants, letting them fall to his ankles when the Mundie locks the door behind him.

"What's the rush?" he asks when he turns around. "We've only just – "

Alec silences the man with a single look. He's usually better at weeding out the chatty ones. Usually, the only ones who dare follow him back here are the ones who have something to prove, which is how he likes it. He has no time for flirting or conversation. "We're here to fuck," Alec says, spitting the word as if it burns his tongue. "So let's get on with it."

The man's eyes flash, and Alec is reassured that his instincts haven't let him down. He lets himself be pressed against the cold surface of the counter, his breath coming in deep pants as the burly mundane presses his wrists against the wall. He pushes back with just enough force to feign belligerence and finds the pressure on his wrists doubled.

He shivers as the man's pants hit the floor, feeling the familiar rush of lust and shame as rough fingers brush along his ass.

"Get on with it," he snarls, pushing back impatiently.

The Mundie doesn't have to be told twice, and drives into him with enough force to slam Alec back against the wall. Alec hisses at the burn, and the man chokes out a laugh.

"Like that, do you? You little fucking freak." He picks up the pace and Alec can feel the cool tip of his dagger pressing into the delicate skin of his palm. The pain is bright and soothing, and the weapon reassures him, even though he knows he wouldn't need it if this guy tried to take things too far.

The sex is vile and exactly as expected: rushed, unsatisfying, and over in a matter of minutes. Though Alec is still hard, he hauls of up his pants immediately, watching with distaste as the mundane ties of the condom and throws it in the garbage. He feels the familiar revulsion uncoiling in the pit of his stomach, and fights the urge to be sick. He flicks his dagger back into his pants too fast for the mundane to know what's happening, and hauls up his sleeves so that he can splash some water on his face.

"Nice tattoos," the man says. Alec can't tell if he's serious or not, so he lets the comment slide.

The man reaches out and grabs Alec's wrist. "Some kind of tribal shit, or something?" He looks curious and is completely unaware of how close he is to being throw through the wall.

"Or something," Alec mutters, drying his hands quickly in his jeans.

"Well then what do they mean?" The man's breath smells strongly of cheap beer and cigarettes and Alec is sure that he's going to be sick.

"They don't mean anything," Alec says, yanking his sleeves down and raising his hood once again in preparation for his trek back to the Institute. "Not anymore."

* * *

**Kind of a teaser start, to show you Alec's headspace right now. This is going to be a bit of a bumpy ride for our boys, and not for the faint of heart. Hope to hear from you all. :)**


	2. Chapter 2

**It was so lovely to hear from all of you! I just got off my 24 hour call, and wrote most of this chapter at 4 in the morning between c-sections, so believe me when I say I'm trying to write these as quickly as I can for you guys. Your lovely feedback is always an excellent incentive. **

**WARNINGS: self-harm, bigotry, violence **

* * *

It isn't hard to sneak back into the Institute undetected. The only footsteps that prowl the halls this late are those of Church, and he barely has time to pause and hiss at Alec, so intense is his drive to rub up against every piece of furniture in the entire building before the sun rises. The visiting Shadowhunters always take rooms furthest away from Alec and his mother, as if they can convince themselves through sheer physical separation and force of will that the Lightwoods have fallen from existence.

He walks through the drafty corridors without pause, eyes straight ahead and hands still jammed into his pockets. He speeds up as he reaches the far end of the hallway, zipping past the three rooms that used to be occupied by other members of the Lightwood family with his eyes locked firmly on the floor. For the first few weeks he had walked right into one of his sibling's bedrooms, halfway through a sentence before he realized that they were gone. It was like a cruel cosmic joke every time he would open Jace's door to ask him to go train, only to have the cold tendrils of his absence rush out from the parabatai rune that served as a constant reminder of what he'd lost. It had taken time to seize that natural inclination and snuff it out, but as with all things, it had eventually faded, leaving only numbness. Leaving yet another piece of himself that Alec cannot feel.

He strips out of his dirty clothes and throws them into the corner. His boxers, which he holds as far away from his body as possible, he tosses into the sink and soaks with scalding water before climbing into bed.

Lying there staring at the ceiling provides an opportunity for the grim reality of what he's done to finally surface. It happens like this every time: each second of his night settles over him like dust, accumulating until he feels suffocated by the weight of his own deviance. He fights against the urge to shower; the noise will almost certainly wake his mother. The images of dirty floors and scuffed sneakers, and the sickly slapping sound of flesh against flesh overwhelm him, as bright and clear as if it was happening all over again. Cursing his Mnemosyne rune, he rolls onto his stomach, burying his head into his pillow. He breathes in small, short gasps, trying to block the new images that are cropping up: two guys about his age that he'd seen grinding against each other in the corner; a smooth strip of skin as a thin, black-haired man had bent over the bar; the rush of desire he had felt when the mundane's fingers had brushed along his ass. His erection is back and it takes all his strength not to rut into his bed like a fucking animal.

He barely has enough time to get to the toilet before he loses everything he ate that night. His throat burns as he retches and hot tears leak from the corners of his eyes, but he manages, against the screaming protests of his body, to stay quiet. The vomiting seems to zap him of what little body heat he has left, and when he returns to bed he's shaking hard enough to rattle the headboard.

Panic slices through his chest razor sharp. What would his mother think, if she found him in his bed, shaking like an infant with cum-stained boxers in his sink and the musky smell of the burly mundane still clinging to his skin? With a shaking hand he reaches down to the floor to pull up his discarded jeans, groping around the pockets for his steele. When he finally connects with the cool surface he draws his hand under the blankets, running the pointed tip against his leg. His breathing slows a little; the familiar weight in his hand and cool brush of metal against his skin is better than any security blanket. He draws the tip up to the inside of his leg, and with a small exhale, forces it downward.

The steele burns into his inner thigh, searing the skin, and with no accompanying rune, the pain is prolonged. As he drags the point downward, Alec nearly cries again in relief. The weight of the night slowly starts to ebb, the sizzle of the steele's point eclipsing the overwhelming numbness. As he pulls his hand back to start over, he finally starts to calm down, comforted by the familiar routine. His pain is bright and cold and true; it's something he can understand and deconstruct. This pain is familiar. This pain feels like absolution.

* * *

Alec doesn't wake until he hears the single, sharp knock that signals his mother has just walked down the hall. He shoots out from under the sweat-soaked sheets and walks right for the shower. It takes him less than five minutes to get ready, even accounting for the dash into the kitchen to grab a bagel, so he still makes it to the meeting before any of the visiting Shadowhunters. His mother doesn't say anything; she merely gives a slight nod of her head before settling into the expressionless mask she uses to communicate with any of Valentine's lackeys.

They trickle in slowly: Bianca and Matthew, hair rumpled and clothes askew; Victor, taciturn as ever, and already equipped in full gear; and Arabelle, glaring at Bianca's high, tinkling giggles with a unmasked contempt she usually saves for Maryse's orders.

"I have located the pack," Victor says as soon as everyone has taken a seat. Maryse's eyebrows knit together and the muscles of her neck pull tight, but she doesn't say anything.

"Well then that settles it," Matthew says, stretching out in his seat like a cat. Bianca pets his hair repeatedly, not doing anything to help the ridiculous image. "We'll attack tonight."

Bianca slumps forward, cupping her chin with her hands. "Ugh, thank God. I cannot _wait_ to get back to Idris. This place is positively dreary."

Alec's hands twitch, desperate for something to throw, so he shoves them beneath his knees. Unfortunately, his chair scrapes against the floor, drawing everyone's attention to him.

Bianca, as usual is the first to break the silence. "You're coming this time, right

Alec?"

"He's coming." Arabelle's voice is low and cold and leaves no room for argument.

Though the Lightwoods are still ostensibly in charge of the Institute, both of them know that Arabelle is really in charge of this expedition. "Valentine wants Lucian Greymark found, and we all want to get home. Everyone comes." She fishes an envelope out of her pocket, and slides it across the table at Alec, a smirk twisting the features of her beautiful face. "A letter from your sister," she says. "She's doing so well at the Academy – you would do well to follow her example."

Alec bites back a retort. He grabs the letter and thrusts it in his pocket to read later. He notices the way his mother leans toward him, her expression hungry for news about her daughter.

"What time do we leave?" he asks, wanting to spare his mother the pain of having to sit here a second longer than necessary.

"We leave at dark," Aarabelle says, pushing out her chair. She walks across the hall and out the door without another word, the sound of her heels echoing through the hall like a warning.

Bianca, Matthew, and Victor follow suit, until Alec and his mother are the only ones remaining.

"Alexander, I –"

"Forget about it, Mom," Alec says. He pulls his sleeves down, covering the marks that he had once been so proud to bear. "There's nothing we can do about it."

* * *

The letter from Izzy is just like all the others: insipid and thoughtless, filled with stories of boys and clothes. In other words, it's exactly the kind of letter that most people would _think_ Isabelle would write home, but is so far from the truth that it's laughable. Alec can picture her now, forced to lay pen to paper under the strict eyes of Valentine or whatever other sycophant presided over the classes at Alicante Academy. For the first few letters Alec had searched out some kind of code – something only he, Izzy, or Jace would know about – but he could come up with nothing. Still, as false and unsatisfying as the letters are, at least Alec knows with each one that his sister is okay. He concentrates on her small, looping cursive and feels, for the briefest of seconds, that she's actually here with him.

He spends the day in the weapons room, methodically cleaning his bow and seraph blade, and making sure all of his gear is in working order. He spends a bit of time flipping from the rafters, but almost everything about this room reminds him of something he did with Jace and Izzy, and he can only stand to walk amongst those demons for short periods of time. When Bianca and Matthew burst through the door, giggling and clearly looking to find a section of the Institute in which they haven't yet fucked, he fades away like a memory, sweeping back to his room as silently as the ghosts that haunt his memories.

* * *

The six Shadowhunters slip out of the Institute as soon as they gain the cover of darkness. Alec's newly applied runes sting, but the burn provides him with the focus he needs to make it down the twisting alleys. He's at rear-point, a silver-tipped arrow already notched and ready to go, while his mother walks directly in front of him, wielding her naginata with the same easy confidence as Izzy. Her footsteps are feather-light, leaving Alec with the distinct feeling that he's not as inconspicuous as he believes during his late-night escapades. He follows the pattern of her footsteps, trying to recall the lessons she'd imparted to him over a decade ago, when he'd taken his first halting steps into this life of death and danger. Of course, back then it had been about protection, not destruction. About justice, not vengeance.

He pushes his thoughts away as Victor slowly holds up a hand at the front of the line, signaling quiet. He moves his hands this way and that, directing the other members of the team to their predetermined vantage points. Alec, more worried about covering his mother than keeping Victor safe, alters his movements slightly to keep her within sight. He can hear the low voices of the werewolf pack on the other side of the window under which he's currently crouching.

Breathing deeply, he waits for Victor's signal. He fingers the end of his arrow, the sharp tip just breaking the edge of his skin, and exhales as a trickle of blood runs down his finger. Unfortunately, one of the wolves must catch the scent, because within seconds the entire safehouse descends into chaos.

Alec drops to the ground as a large, midnight black wolf crashes through the window above his head. His arrow is flying before he's even registered the movement, and he notches and shoots three more in quick concession. Victor and Arabelle, standing back to back, are being circled by two members of the pack, and his mother is engaged in combat with a small, shaggy wolf.

Maryse dodges and ducks, but can only maintain a defensive position. Her long weapon is cumbersome in such a small space, and her seraph blade has been knocked away in all the confusion.

Propelled into action by the sound of claws ripping through his mother's gear, Alec jumps onto the ledge of the shattered window and catapults himself across the alley to an overhanging ledge. He hauls himself up and quickly gets to work raining a deluge of arrows into the alley below. As soon as a werewolf nears his mother's petite frame, another arrow is loosened. He can hear the scuffle and cry of Matthew and Bianca as they fight savagely, side by side, but he doesn't care what happens to them. He only cares that his mom walks out of this fight unharmed. He's so focused on his task that he doesn't notice the werewolf still in human form, who uses an abandoned dumpster to creep behind him.

"Alec, watch out!" his mother screams as the young girl pounces, a curved dagger in one hand. Alec twists, and though the knife catches his shoulder, the cut is superficial. He uses his momentum to twist the knife out of the girl's hand, and then throws her over the side of the platform and on to the street below.

Somewhere, near the end of the alley, a girl screeches in anger, but Alec only sees a flash of brown, curly hair, and a shadow elongating from human to canine form, then the werewolf is out of sight. The rest of the pack has scattered, leaving only the young girl who tried to attack Alec. Aarabelle walks toward her, nostrils flaring and a falchion gripped tightly in each hand. Her dress billows around her in the breeze, and with her red lips and ethereal features she looks like an angel of vengeance.

The young werewolf whimpers as she approaches, and blood burbles up from her throat with a sickening squelching noise.

"Lucian Greymark," Ara says, kneeling down by the girl. "Where is he?"

"Fuck you, Shadowhunter scum," the girl spits, blowing flecks of blood onto Ara's porcelain skin.

Ara takes one of the falchions and drives it through the soft skin of the girl's forearm, pinning her to the pavement. Her scream of anguish rings through the alley before ending in a burbling cry. "I don't know," she says, her chest heaving with the effort of holding back tears. "He's not in New York. Hasn't been for a long time."

Ara twists the knife, smiling as the girl struggles. She places her knee in the center of the girl's chest, avoiding the blood as it bubbles up this time. "I really hope you aren't –"

Her voice is cut short as an arrow whips past, lodging itself in the girl's windpipe. There isn't even enough time for her to cough; she expires before Arabelle can finish her sentence.

"Lightwood," the Shadowhunter snarls, her eyes flashing in the dim light provided by a nearby streetlamp.

"She had a knife," Alec says, pointing to the weapon lying by the werewolf's outstretched hand. "And you were getting close enough for her to use it."

Victor walks up and places a hand on Ara's shoulder, squeezing gently. "The creature didn't know anything." He sheathes his own weapons and takes out his steele, ready to draw an Iratze for his angry parabatai. She glares up at Alec, and then hauls her falchion from the werewolf's arm, kicking the corpse as she does so.

Alec swings over the ledge and jogs toward to his mother, but she's already finished hastily applying her own runes. He hands her his bow and arrow, and gives her a meager excuse he knows she'd never believe, but she just nods and follows after Victor and Arabelle. Bianca and Matthew are kissing loudly against a wall, not five feet from the mangled corpse of a werewolf who doesn't look any older than seventeen. Alec balls his hands into fists and forces himself to look away. He disappears down his familiar route, hoping that they're all back in Idris where they belong when he gets home.

* * *

**1. Yes, I reused a line from Certain Dark Things (oops, was sleepy and don't wanna change it now)**

**2. We were introduced to Alec's mindset in the last chapter and the purpose of this chapter was to give you some perspective on the Shadowhunting world as it stands at this point in time**

**3. coming up next: MAGNUS BANE ;)**

**:)**


	3. Chapter 3

**Well, my sweet readers, another night on call, another chapter. It's nice to know that my insomnia is good for something. **

**Warnings: Homophobic slurs & violence**

* * *

When he catches his regular train, Alec finds a spot in the back and hastily applies a glamour. He never hides his marks completely – it would take too much time and effort – but merely makes them look a little more like mundie tattoos. He can feel the blood starting to crust along his shoulder, but he doesn't bother to do anything about it. The cut is too shallow to require an Iratze, and he doesn't really plan on taking off his jacket anyway. He just needs a few minutes – five, maybe less – to dispel the pent-up energy he's harboring, and then he can go home.

Tonight when he exits the underground, he finds the streets eerily deserted. The usual junkies and loiterers have vanished from sight, and this part of the city is quiet enough to hear the stray bits of garbage being blown along by the wind. Alec pulls his jacket a little closer and makes a beeline toward the bar.

He's only a street away when his enhanced hearing picks up a sound – the smallest rustle of footsteps – and he dodges to the side just before a silver-muzzled werewolf launches out of the darkness, snapping at the air where he had just been standing.

Alec gropes at his pocket for his dagger, only to remember he didn't bring it. He'd gone to battle armed with his bow and seraph blade, both of which his mother is now transporting back to the Institute. He uses the small space between buildings to his advantage, propelling himself over the wolf's head and landing a sharp kick to its flank before it can skid to a stop. The wolf yelps, and Alec keeps his ears trained for the sound of the rest of the pack. He can only assume that this is one of the wolves from Luke's pack, and he prays that they split up after leaving the safe house. The wolf regroups quickly, and springs at Alec once again, trying to round him into a corner like a frightened animal.

Alec grabs his stele – the only thing on his person that can substitute as a weapon – and twists out of the way as the werewolf pounces again. This time he drags the pointed end of his stele along the wolf's back, burning a long stripe into its flesh. The wolf snaps, saliva coating the back of Alec's jacket, and Alec scrambles to formulate an exit strategy. His runes, which had been applied before leaving the Institute, are starting to fade, and his strength is only going to diminish the longer this drags out. He could run – it would take less than thirty seconds to get to the bar – but he has no idea what the werewolf will do in retaliation. He can't risk dragging this fight into a building full of innocent bystanders.

The wolf paces back and forth, its teeth pulled back in a horrific snarl, but it doesn't make another move. Alec holds his stele steadily, years of practice and experience helping to keep him calm. Warm blood drips down his back from where the knife-cut has reopened, but the rush of battle stays the pain. He's contemplating taking the offensive and using the cramped space to his advantage, but the wolf steps forward and seamlessly makes the change back to his human form.

The man standing in front of him looks familiar: the large, brown eyes and stubby nose match those of the young werewolf from the alley. The one Ara was torturing.

"Recognize me, do you, Nephilim scum?" The werewolf spits out a mouthful of blood and takes a step toward Alec. "Or let me guess – all downworlders look alike to you?"

"I – I'm sorry," Alec says, gripping his stele a little tighter. In human form, the werewolf towers over him, and his arms are nearly as large as Alec's thighs. While he's confident in his hand-to-hand combat abilities, he's not entirely sure that pure brute strength won't win out in the end. He fumbles the stele behind his body, trying to find an exposed patch of skin on which to draw a new stamina rune.

Unfortunately, the downworlder must sense what he's doing, because he rushes Alec like a linebacker, sending the stele skidding across the pavement and pressing Alec against cold concrete. The werewolf's fingers spread around his throat, and though Alec doesn't give in easily, the need for oxygen soon outweighs his meager kicks. The wolf lifts him from the ground by the neck, slamming his head into the building behind him.

Alec thinks of his mother, sitting alone in her room at the Institute, waiting for him to come home, and is filled with an overpowering sense of self-loathing. She has done nothing to deserve this, to find his body mangled outside a mundie gay bar. He wonders what would kill her first: the pain or the shame?

"You're sorry?" the downworlder snarls, his hot breath spilling onto Alec's face. He has the overwhelming urge to gag, but the wolf's hand is crushing his windpipe. "Not nearly sorry enough, I'd say."

Though he doesn't look to be much older than Alec – five, maybe six years at the most – the wolf has impeccable control. He holds his free hands in front of Alec's eyes, letting his claws extend slowly outward until they're nearly two inches long and razor sharp. Alec has the energy for one last attempt at a struggle, but the werewolf merely pulls him away from the wall before slamming him backward again. His head cracks against the concrete and he can feel a warm gush of blood trickling between the open collar of his jacket and his neck. He groans, but before he can shake off the fuzziness, the wolf's other hand shoots upwards, driving the jagged claws into the soft skin of his abdomen.

Pain lances through Alec's body and the werewolf finally releases his throat, growling as he drops to the ground in a tangle of limbs. He coughs violently, and with each new paroxysm, a spurt of blood bubbles up from his throat, starting the process again. He gasps for breath, panicked about drowning in his own blood and nauseous from the blow to the head.

"She was my sister," growls the wolf, leaning down and slamming him against the ground by his shoulders. "And she did _nothing_ to you or any of your kind."

Alec scrambles for his discarded stele, but it's too far away. He's never been afraid to die – he's been raised to be a warrior – but he doesn't want to go like this. Not in a puddle of his own blood and shaming his family in front of the entire Clave. He can imagine his father's look of disappointment at his funeral. Can imagine him assuring everyone that this is why he had stayed in Idris, rather than New York: because his son was a disappointment.

"Is this what you want?" The werewolf picks up the stele and dangles it in front of Alec's face. "Maybe I should give it to you. You can draw your little healing runes and I can take my time. Or maybe I should bring you around the corner to visit some friends? See what kinds of things they can think up for you?"

The wolf must be able to sense the change in tempo of Alec's heart, because he laughs. "I knew it!" He pulls Alec up into a sitting position, staring straight into his eyes. "Maybe I should bring you back," he says. "What do you think Valentine would want more? To kill one more downworlder or to have the satisfaction of stripping the runes from a pathetic Nephilim faggot?"

Alec tries to scream – to rage, or kick, or anything – but instead ends up vomiting blood onto the werewolf's arm. Eyes stinging with tears, he tries to calm down and not give in to the downworlder's taunting. But try as he may, he can't stop the frantic pounding of his heart. Forget his mother, his family, or Valentine. All he can think of is Jace. He's not sure if he believes in any sort of afterlife, but if there is a place – a shore or a vale or a haven – where the parabatai await their brothers, Alec would not be able to stand entering without Jace by his side. He would rather die a thousand deaths, be tortured for day on end by this sadistic werewolf than have to see the look of disappointment in Jace's eyes – to be turned away from him forever.

Enraged, he lashes out with all the strength he has remaining, and manages to drive his elbow just under the werewolf's jaw. The connection makes a dull thud, but Alec barely has time to enjoy the small victory before he's launched across the alley. The wolf draws a dagger from his pocket – _good, _Alec thinks fiercely, _I've made him angry enough to kill me _– but before he gets a chance to use it, he's interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps.

"What's going on here?" Alec looks toward the source of the voice and sees a guy – probably mundane, looks about his age – approaching, his face drawn in confusion.

"Leave," Alec tries to say, but nothing comes up except a trickle of blood.

"Get out of here, kid," snarls the werewolf. "This doesn't concern you."

But the mundane doesn't listen. He just walks closer, neither slowing nor speeding up. He takes short, deliberate steps, and his features start to come into focus. He's tall – not as tall as the werewolf, but still taller than Alec – and has shiny black hair that frames the delicate bones of his face. _He's beautiful_, Alec thinks stupidly, hating himself immediately for the thought. How is it that even now, at the brink of death, that's the first thing he manages to notice? His head swims dangerously, and he fights to keep from throwing up.

The werewolf moves away from Alec, stalking across the alley toward the boy. "I told you," he says, raising his arm along with his voice, "to leave!" He swings outward, perhaps hoping to scare the newcomer into running away, but his arm stops in midair.

The newcomer's eyes flash yellow in the darkness, and Alec realizes that he's seen him before.

Evidently, the werewolf has too. "Bane," he growls. "Stay out of this."

Bane. Alec's mind fights against the impending stupor that threatens to take him under. As in Magnus Bane? Alec is sure that he must have misheard; no one has seen Magnus Bane in nearly a year. The High Warlock of Brooklyn is worth more to Valentine than perhaps any other downworlder; he'd be a fool to show himself in front of any Nephilim.

Apparently Magnus Bane – if it is indeed him – does not take orders well. With a snap of his fingers the werewolf is pinned to the wall beside Alec, unable to do anything more than spit obscenities. "He killed my sister, Bane. You save him now, and I swear I will find him! And I will end you!"

"I have no interest in personal stories," Magnus says, sounding bored. "Or useless threats. What I do have an interest in is ensuring that this street – which I happen to like – is not suddenly crawling with vengeful Nephilim."

"They wouldn't mourn him anyway," the wolf snarls. "They have no use for his kind. He's a fucking – "

Magnus snaps his fingers again and the wolf's mouth snaps shut. "I think," Magnus says, low and dangerous, "that that is quite enough out of you, Jenkins." He steps up and presses a single, long finger to the werewolf's – Jenkins' – forehead, stepping back so that the body doesn't hit him when it slumps to the ground.

He walks over to Alec, placing his hands on either side of the Shadowhunter's face. His eyes have changed and are now slit up the center, just like a cat's. "And as for you," he murmurs. "Maybe I should just leave you here to die."

Alec fights against the warmth that Magnus's touch evokes. "Why don't you?" he croaks, dragging in a ragged breath.

Magnus doesn't answer, just murmurs a few words under his breath and keeps his hands resting lightly on Alec's skin. The warmth builds and starts to radiate outward, clearing Alec's head and mending the cuts on his stomach. As his throat clears he takes in greedy gulps of air, nearly crying with the relief of finally being able to breathe.

Magnus bends over and picks of Alec's discarded stele. Then, to Alec's supreme surprise, hands it right to him. "You might want to get around to reapplying those runes," he advises.

Alec just gapes at him senselessly until Magnus throws the stele into his lap. He bends down and pokes Alec in the head. "Huh. I haven't broken one in a long time," he says to himself.

Alec flushes and pulls away from Magnus's touch. He begins hastily reapplying his runes as Magnus looks down at him, arms crossed. From his position on the ground Alec can see a thin strip of Magnus's skin and notices – with a slip of his stele and a murmured curse – that he doesn't have a navel.

It takes him a few seconds, but Alec soon feels well enough to stand. He looks at the warlock carefully, trying to compare what he's heard to what he's seeing. Trying to imagine this dark, shadowed figure as the flamboyant party-host his sister once told him about. "You're really Magnus Bane?"

Magnus twirls theatrically. "The Magnificent." He prods the werewolf with his shoe and then leans down to mutter something over the body. "And you are?"

"Alec. Alec Lightwood."

Magnus's eyes flicker back up to him quickly, but he doesn't comment.

"Why didn't you?" Alec asks, his head still a bit muddled from everything that's happened.

Magnus stands up and leans against the wall once again, looking perfectly relaxed – perhaps even a little amused. "Why didn't I what?"

"Let me die." He looks down at the werewolf's body and thinks of the arrow he shot through his sister's throat. "He was telling the truth. I did kill his sister."

Magnus shrugs. "And I was telling the truth."

Alec crosses his arms, shivering as the wind whips through his jacket. "You saved my life because you didn't want to find a new place to hang out?"

Magnus's stare is pointed. "It's a nice bar."

Alec scoffs. "It's a shithole!"

Magnus shrugs, pushing himself away from the wall. "Maybe I don't have a taste for killing," he says. "I think maybe you can understand that?"

Alec fiddles with his stele, not liking the way Magnus is edging ever closer. "You don't know anything about me," he answers.

"I wouldn't say that." Magnus grins, reaching out to run his hand down Alec's arm. He looks surprised when Alec flinches, and withdraws completely.

"How did you know I wouldn't kill you?"

To Alec's utmost embarrassment, Magnus actually laughs. When he realizes that Alec is being serious, he tries to turn his sudden outburst into a cough and fails miserably. "Well, baby Nephilim," he says. "Even if I believed that you were capable of such an act – which, I can assure you, you are not – let's just say I had an inkling that you wouldn't."

"Why? Just because you saw – just because I've. Because I'm – "

"Gay?" Magnus supplies. "Aww, kitten, no need to be modest. Last night may have been the first time you saw me, but I assure you, it's not the first night I was there." He winks and Alec catches a faint line of glitter along his eyelid.

"Fine, just because I'm…gay," Alec spits out quickly, "doesn't mean I can't hate downworlders. I could just go and sound the alarm, you know. Tell everyone that Magnus Bane is still in New York."

Magnus's cat eyes sweep over his body, and Alec feels as though he can peer right through him. It's unsettling. "What are you going to tell them? That you were on your way to your nightly hookup and ran into the High Warlock of Brooklyn? You're going to bring them back to this very alley and show them what happened. Maybe they'll think you're delirious. Maybe you _will _be delirious." Magnus examines his nails, peering up at Alec with hooded eyes, and manages to look more menacing than Jenkins had in his wolf form. "Don't test me, little Nephilim."

Alec scowls. "Has anyone ever told you that you're a bit of a condescending dick?"

"On the contrary. The King of Spain once told me that I was delight, and he didn't like anybody."

"Evidently, times have changed."

"Yes, well, attempted extermination of my race and all that," Magnus says, his eyes flashing. "Makes me a little cranky."

"I'm sorry," Alec says quietly. Magnus must realize that he means it, because he smiles, a little sadly. "I've lived through dozens of wars, Alec Lightwood, and I have more than a little experience recognizing what evil looks like. The Nephilim have much to be sorry for, but you're not the one who needs to apologize."

Feeling like the whole night is catching up on him, Alec slumps against the wall, his eyes burning with sudden effort of holding back tears. "I have so much to apologize for," he whispers.

When he looks up Magnus is back in disguise. His eyes are now a yellowish green, and he seems smaller, somehow. He looks frail and very young. The werewolf stirs and whimpers a little and Magnus holds out his hand. "I think it's time to go. He won't remember much about the last hour or so, but it's best not to be here when he wakes up."

Alec ignores the outstretched hand and pushes himself back up. "You shouldn't be able to do that. That glamour – I should be able to see through it."

Magnus grins and Alec's heart twinges – the gesture is so reminiscent of Jace's full-bodied glee that for a minute it's hard to breathe. "I could fill a book with all the things I _shouldn't _be able to do," he says. "A tome, even." He reaches out and brushes his hand against Alec's cheek a second time. "Come back tomorrow," he says, close enough that Alec can feel the heat of his body. "I'll show you a couple of them."

Alec pulls back as if he's been burned. "Thank you for helping me," he says stiffly.

Magnus, old enough now to recognize a lost cause, just inclines his head and moves aside so that Alec can brush past.

Digging his nails into his palms, Alec sets off in the direction of the subway without a backward glance, ignoring the lingering heat on his face and the persistent thrumming of his traitorous heart.

* * *

**There we have it. I wonder how Alec is going to handle finding a guy he's actually *attracted* to? (hint: not well). Eager for the next chapter? You know what to do! **


	4. Chapter 4

**Warnings: sexual assault (someone forcing themselves on another person, but no penetrative sexual assault), violence, implied self-harm**

* * *

This time, when Alec walks through the front doors of the Institute, Arabelle is waiting for him. She looks ready for bed, dressed in stretchy black pants and a tank top, but her body is practically vibrating with excess energy. Her eyes are narrowed to near slits and she looks more jackal than human. Alec doesn't miss the bulge of a knife at her side or the runes that have been freshly applied. Whatever she's waiting for, he doubts it's a simple talk.

"Arabelle," he says coldly, not breaking his stride. Unfortunately, she gets up from her perch across from the door and follows him down the hall, her heels echoing loudly throughout the silent church.

When Alec shows no sign of slowing, she reaches out and grabs him, spinning him around and pinning him to the wall.

"Ara, I am really not in the mood for this," he grinds out. He's has quite enough of people forcing themselves on him tonight, and even thoughts of keeping Izzy safe can't temper his rapidly rising rage. He traps his hands behind his legs before he can do something rash, and waits for her to get on with whatever she's been waiting to do.

She ignores him and tightens her grip, blood-red fingernails piercing his skin. "You may think that being a Lightwood protects you in some way," she hisses. "But your legacy is coming to an end, Alec." She squeezes tighter. Her white knuckles stretch over Alec's forearm and her porcelain skin is mottled with anger. "You will _not _make a fool of me again."

The pressure is starting to hurt, so he twists out of her grip, pulling her arm out and around her back. He means to only force her off balance, but the residual adrenaline from everything that's happened tonight makes him underestimate his own strength. He feels a sickening pop as her shoulder dislocates, and he even feels a tiny flicker of pity as she moans, obviously trying to mask the pain. Using his sympathy to her advantage, she drives one of her stilettos into his foot, easily splitting the tiny bones, and flips him to the ground as soon as he doubles over in pain.

Pinning his arms with her knees, she uses her uninjured hand to extract the dagger from her back pocket. She presses the blade to his neck, leaning down so low that he can see much more of her cleavage than he has ever wanted. His gut twists painfully in disgust; after all, knife to the throat notwithstanding, there are hordes of young Shadowhunters who would kill for this vantage point. The list of things Alec would give up to be one of them – to long for Ara's soft curves instead of a lean, hardened chest – is extensive.

"One day, you'll be away from the Institute," she snarls, pressing the blade hard enough to draw blood. "You'll be away from your mommy and in _my _territory, and then we'll see how confident you are with your little bow and arrow." She presses her knees down, driving the bone into soft flesh, but Alec refuses to engage. He merely stares back, his face the perfect picture of apathy.

"Where do you go?" she muses. "What do you do out there all alone? I'm sure your mother would like to know. I'm sure Valentine would like to know." She smiles and for a single, horrified second Alec is sure that _she_ knows. She lifts the blade and slides it back in her pocket before bending down so that her face is only centimeters above Alec's. "Stay out of my way, Lightwood," she whispers just above his lips. She's so close that Alec can smell her nauseating cherry lip-gloss. "Stay out of my way or I will ruin you." She closes the distance between them, catching his lips in a violent kiss. He startles and she clamps down, drawing blood, and all Alec can do is lie there, paralyzed. When she pulls away a string of blood and spit spreads out between them. Instead of wiping it away, Ara just takes her gloss back out and smears it into her puffy lips.

_She's crazy,_ Alec thinks as she walks away from him, cradling her injured arm. _She's absolutely fucking insane._

It's the first time Alec's ever kissed a woman, and it feels as much like a violation of his spirit as his body. He startles a hollow laugh from himself: what would Valentine or any of his followers think if Alec brought forth a charge of sexual assault against Arabelle? They'd laugh him out of Alicante. Weary and disgusted, he gets up and brushes himself off, drawing a quick Iratze on his neck so that the cut doesn't scab and raise questions. Once he's safely inside his room, he draws a rune to lock the door from the inside and then puts the stele on his bedside table. Some nights he'll bring it over to the desk or lock it in a drawer, creating as many barriers as possible. Sometimes, that's enough to fight the compulsion: knowing that he'd have to make the walk across the room. Tonight, he knows better. He knows it would be a waste of time.

Nerves frayed and stomach rolling, he retires to the bathroom, where he proceeds to run a scalding-hot shower. He scrubs at his skin viciously, peeling away layers of dirt and skin and blood, until it all mixes together into a blackish-red sludge. He watches it disappear down the drain and wishes that he could burn away the memories of the night – from the raid, to Magnus Bane, to his encounter with Ara – with the same efficacy.

* * *

There's no brisk knock at his door in the morning, and when Alec finally makes his way to the kitchen, he finds his mother at the table alone, drinking a cup of coffee.

He grabs a mug for himself and settles into the seat across from her. "So where is everyone?"

"They left, first thing this morning," she says. "I wouldn't have known, except that I was getting ready to go out myself." Her face is gaunt and there are lines that didn't exist even a few short months ago. His mother, for the first time Alec can remember, looks older than her age. Her willowy figure has changed into something distressingly thin, and Alec aches to be able to provide her with some kind of comfort. Jace, Isabelle, or even Max would be much better company; it's all he can do to just hide the pieces of himself that he knows would cause her even more pain.

"Do you know who's coming next?"

His mother shakes her head slowly and takes another quiet sip. "I only know that they arrive tonight." She opens her mouth as if to say something more, but the space between them remains silent. Her gaze turns once again to the window, and Alec knows that there's no use trying to talk any longer. He grabs a muffin from a box sitting on the table and gets up to leave, nearly falling backward when his mother's hand shoots out to grab his wrist.

"Alexander," she starts, "you must – must pay more attention to your surroundings in battle. You were sloppy last night."

"I know," he whispers quietly. She releases her grip slowly, as if trying to convince herself that he's still there, and continues her silent vigil long after his footsteps fade into the distance.

* * *

The new Shadowhunters are a surprise. There are only two of them this time, and they have no orders for specific raids. In fact, they don't seem to have any orders at all. The first is a doddering old man with hunched shoulders and the thickest glasses Alec has ever seen, and wouldn't last two rounds with a cocker spaniel, let alone a werewolf, and the second is a young woman, straight out of Valentine's Academy.

Unlike the previous tenants, these two seem quite keen to get to know the remaining Lightwoods. Clifton, who apparently works in the archives in Alicante, has come for a couple of weeks to sift through Hodge's old books and papers, to sort out if he was researching anything of great importance before he died. Marceline, much to Alec's dismay, seems intent on getting him to take her out on patrol, having spent most of her life in the sheltered streets of the City of Glass.

For the rest of the day it's like his shadow's had a sex change. Marceline follows him from room to room, practicing what he practices and eating what he eats and even reading as he reads. She decides to take the bedroom across from his, and when he finally manages to lose her for a blessed five minutes of privacy, she knocks tentatively on his door, asking if she can come in. Though he's sure he doesn't look thrilled to see her, she creeps into his room anyway and takes a seat near his desk.

For the first few minutes she's silent, watching him as he copies notes from a demonology text into his notebook.

"I can't believe you study in your free time," she says eventually. Her voice is soft and not at all mocking, but Alec can't help but lash out.

"Right, because being prepared to save someone's life is such a waste of time." He turns back to his book, transcribing common demon poisons and their antidotes. "There are no warlocks to run to if you get hurt," he adds brazenly. "Do you know how long you'd have to get to a silent brother if you were bitten by a Rulock demon?"

She looks at the floor, silent.

"What if it's your parabatai?" he presses angrily. "You just going to let his blood coagulate until his microvascular system is blocked and he dies right in front of you?" When she remains silent he throws the book to his floor in disgust. "You spend hours a day in that school, learning what distinguishes Shadowhunters – what makes us so superior – and you graduate so full of inflated self importance that you don't even know how to save your damn life from the creatures we were created to eliminate!" He considers storming out, just so he doesn't have to look at a living, breathing example of his people's hypocrisy, but where is he going to go? He refuses to leave this stranger alone in his room, so he just stays there, seething, and waits for her to answer.

"A warlock saved my sister once," she says quietly, still not lifting her eyes from the floor. "My parents wouldn't let me out of my room, but I could see the outline of her wings through a crack in the door. My sister had wandered off and was attacked by something – we had no idea what – and this woman just came in and worked her ass off until Kathy was all right." Her voice drops even lower and she shifts slightly in the chair, drawing her knees up to her chest. "I saw her again, a couple of months ago, the night before she was executed." She finally lifts her eyes from the floor and Alec is horrified to see that she's crying.

Alec shifts awkwardly on the bed, and is trying to find something to say when Marceline starts to speak again.

"What's it like?" Alec doesn't need her to clarify, but she does anyway. "Killing a Downworlder?"

Unsure of her motivations, but too tired to care anyway, he tells the truth. "It's horrible." What he doesn't say hangs in the air between them: It's not what I trained to do. It's not what I believe in. It's not what I wanted to become.

"I met your dad," Marceline says, breaking the awkward silence. "He said that we might get along." She glances at him through her blonde eyelashes and Alec is struck by an awful realization. Marceline is smart. She seems a little shy and she's spent nearly the whole day with her head stuck in a book. Her blue eyes are bright and he's sure that her thick blonde hair and small smile are very enticing to other guys. She also seems to share Alec's own reservations about Shadowhunter politics. In other words, she's everything Alec's father probably believes he's looking for. His father _sent _her here for him. He feels like he's going to be sick.

Marceline must notice, because she shuts down immediately. She gets up, ready to walk out the door, but Alec stops her. As fucked up as this is, not of it is her fault. "Wait. We can still go hunting tonight – I mean, if you want?"

She looks a little suspicious – and Alec doesn't blame her, with the way he's been acting – but she responds with a soft, "okay."

Alec settles back against the wall, looking steadfastly at his textbook. "Nine o'clock sharp. I'll meet you at the door." He doesn't fully relax until he hears her go into her own room.

* * *

"This is where you hunt for demons?" Marceline gapes at the lineup in front of pandemonium, her eyes lingering over the various tattooed patrons who are waiting to get stamped. "Your parents let you come here?"

"First rule of Shadowhunting: you go where the demons go." Alec sidesteps before a particularly rambunctious mundie trips over his feet, and his arm brushes against Marceline.

The touch triggers an instant reaction and the smooth skin brings back a flood of memories from the night before. He can feel Ara's soft hands pinning him to the ground and can taste the bitter tang of blood along his lips. He stiffens and Marceline draws her arms close, looking hurt. "I think I'm a little underdressed," she says, clearly misinterpreting his distress.

Alec actually smiles a little at that, gesturing to his faded jeans and ripped t-shirt. "Join the club."

"Hey, at least my clothes are intact," she teases. She steps toward him, and the scent of her shampoo – something citrusy – overwhelms his senses. He stumbles back, right into a group of mundanes who are thankfully too drunk to notice, but as he does, a familiar face catches his eye.

It's Jenkins, the werewolf from last night. He stands out in the crowd, towering inches above everyone else, but thankfully Alec manages to push away his anxiety and pull Marceline around the corner and halfway down the block before he can turn and spot them.

"Alec, what the hell are you doing?" She yanks her hand away, collapsing against the brick wall of a Laundromat. "Warn somebody before you take off like that."

Alec ignores her and runs out to flag down a cab. "Marceline you need to get in this cab and go straight back to the Institute. She opens her mouth to argue, but Alec just shoves some money at the driver and closes the door. "I'll be back in a couple of hours," he says as she drives down the street. "I'll explain everything later."

As soon as the cab is out of view, Alec collapses to the sidewalk in relief. He's not that worried about Jenkins – he'd know by now if the werewolf had seen him – but he can't shake the feeling of discomfort that comes from being so close to Marceline. He should have known that this would happen sooner or later. The Shadowhunter life expectancy curve drops like the Marianas Trench after age twenty-five, so romances start young and escalate quickly. Still, he'd assumed he was safe in New York. He hadn't dreamed that his father would start arranging girlfriends for him, shipping them off to him like cattle. Marceline seemed like a pretty nice girl, but unfortunately, nice girls are the last things that Alec's interested in. For a second, he tries to convince himself that it won't be so bad. He imagines going back to the Institute, knocking on Marceline's door, and pulling her into his arms, but his very being balks violently at the idea of her breasts against his chest, of running his hand along the soft swell of her hips. He may be an aberration, a shame to the Shadowhunter name, and a coward, but he's not a liar. Even if, by some miracle, he could that to himself, it wouldn't be fair to Marceline or any other girl his father decided to push his way.

Agitated, he lets his thoughts drift to what he really wants, to narrow hips and a smooth, golden, navel-free abdomen. He lets the image of Magnus Bane flood his mind – his cool finger-snapping and effortless charisma– and his abdomen tightens with lust.

_Come back tomorrow. _

The warlock's low, sultry purr is engrained in Alec's mind, playing on a loop like the horrible mundane songs that are constantly on the radio. Books, training, fending off Marceline – all have been attempts to rid himself of the complicated mixture of arousal and shame Magnus seems to elicit, and none have been successful. And nothing _will _be successful. He knows that unless he does something – finds _someone, _Magnus Bane or not – he's not going to be able to sleep. He's not going to be able to concentrate or rest until he can rid himself of this feeling. He's weak – a fact backed by years worth of evidence – and he should know better by now than to even try to resist.

* * *

_Maybe he's not here_, Alec thinks as he pushes the bar door open. He convinces himself that he doesn't _want_ Magnus to be here, so that he can just have a drink, find a guy brave enough to go out back with him, and get this over with.

But when he looks to the edge of the bar and sees Magnus, disguised again by potent magic, chatting with a young mundane with spiky blonde hair, his heart flutters inappropriately in his chest. He dampens the feeling, pushing it into the far reaches of his mind, and approaches as confidently as he can. It's the allure of his power – the thought that maybe Magnus will be the one to push him over the edge, to drive him away from this lifestyle – that propels him toward the warlock, he tells himself. It's fear, not arousal that twists Alec's insides and makes his mouth go dry. Magnus has not only the means, but also the motive to make this hell for Alec. He can – he should – make this unbearable.

Though he doesn't look up from his conversation, Alec knows that Magnus can see him. He can feel Magnus's awareness of him; a skill honed from over a decade of battle. The young mundane looks up first, and visibly blanches when he takes in Alec's grim face and tattooed arms. Alec ignores him, and looks directly at Magnus.

"Does your offer from last night still stand?" he asks, sounding infinitely more confident than he feels.

Magnus's face is blank, but the corners of his mouth twitch with the urge to smile. His looks up through lowered lashes and a slow smirk spreads across his face. "Sorry Jared," he says to the mundane, pushing a drink toward him in recompense. "It looks like I'm spoken for." He grabs Alec's shirt and drags him toward the back room, and the air practically thrums with the force of his contained magic.

* * *

**Next time: we pick up right where this chapter left off ;)**  
**From here on out the story is going to get a lot more plot-oriented. Magnus's presence will set some things in motion that affect both our boys. **


	5. Chapter 5

**Sorry for the delay. I know I promised plot, but instead you're getting smangst (smutty angst). My stories usually start off at a slow burn and then explode somewhere in the middle, so I'm sure the same will happen here. Enjoy :)**

* * *

With a snap of Magnus's finger the door slams and locks behind Alec. Alec jumps, his pulse hammering so loudly that he's sure Magnus's magically-enhanced hearing can pick it up. Not wanting to break the momentum, Magnus grabs Alec and slams him against the wall. His shoulders hit with a thud and the first prickle of unease dances along his skin.

_Looks like Magnus is going to make this rough. _He bites down against the feeling, telling himself that isn't disappointing. It's expected. It's what he wants. Magnus presses close, pinning Alec against the wall, and the tight leather of his pants squeaks against Alec's jeans. His hand disappears for a second, and before Alec can even register the rustle of fabric and brush of fingers against his skin, Magnus has his seraph blade pressed against his throat. The air crackles with the strength of Magnus's power, but he doesn't actually use any magic on Alec. In fact, if not for the fact that he can feel the magic pressing against him, ready to be unleashed, Alec wouldn't know that Magnus was anything but mildly interested.

"Planning a little undercover mission, kitten?" Magnus runs the blade softly over Alec's exposed throat, and he suppresses the urge to shiver.

"Don't call me that," Alec growls. He takes a deep breath and then twists outward, pinning Magnus to the wall, fingers splayed so that he can't snap them. The seraph blade falls to the ground, echoing loudly in the small bathroom. "It's insulting."

"Almost as insulting as you thinking you can intimidate me." Magnus shifts slightly, and the wall of magic shifts with him. He mutters something under his breath in a language Alec doesn't understand and Alec can actually _feel _the magic squeezing against him, forcing the air from his lungs. He blinks rapidly, trying to get rid of the black spots suddenly obscuring his vision, but it doesn't work.

"This is not why I came here," he chokes out, fighting to keep Magnus in place.

Magnus raises an eyebrow and the magic dissipates, scattering with a faint hiss and a hint of blue smoke. Alec releases his grip on Magnus's wrists and slumps against the wall with a gasp. "If you're always this friendly, it's no surprise that half the Clave is looking for you."

"Really?" Magnus pouts. "Only half?" He rubs at his wrists, and Alec actually feels a bit guilty. There will probably be bruises there tomorrow.

"I didn't come here to hurt –"

Magnus raises his eyebrow again and Alec rolls his eyes. "I didn't come here to _try_ to hurt you," he corrects. _Not that I would be that obvious,_ he adds silently. He's not a complete idiot – it would take more than his spastic proposition and ugly sweaters to distract Magnus Bane enough to pull some kind of undercover hit. Not to mention he would be the last person the Clave would think to send after someone so important. He's not even the first _Lightwood _they would pick for a mission like that.

"Well then, Alec," says Magus, running his fingers along Alec's throat this time. "Why don't you just fill me in on why you did come here?"

Alec swallows, trying to regain a modicum of the surety he felt when he first walked into the bar. This is why he never talks to them; it's so much easier to just lean against the wall and let them figure it out for themselves.

Magnus folds his arms and slouches against the wall. "Well?"

"I came here," Alec forces out, crossing his arms and glaring at Magnus, "so that you could fuck me. So are you going to, or should I go find someone else?"

If Alec were a little less horny and a lot less mortified, he would probably find Magnus's reaction amusing. Though it's nearly instantaneous, the warlock's head legitimately recoils in shock. He recovers quickly though, staring Alec up and down with begrudging respect. "Color me surprised," he purrs, pressing a little closer. His hands curl around Alec's biceps, and Alec has to resist the urge to grind upward.

"And that, little Shadowhunter," he whispers against Alec's ear, pausing just long enough to brush his tongue lightly against the cartilage, "is not an easy thing to do."

Alec flushes, both from the sudden rush of _want _and from the shame of knowing that apparently he doesn't even live up to Magnus Bane's standards. And if everything he'd heard from Izzy and Jace was true, those standards aren't particularly impressive. "So, then are you going to get on with it?" Alec struggles to keep his voice low and deep and not at all the desperate timbre he's afraid will leak out. "Or have you changed your mind now?"

"Oh, darling," Magnus says, "it's going to take a little more than a slight change of plans to scare me away." He pauses, as if considering something important. "Though I wouldn't be averse to you pinning me to the wall again. Maybe next time."

The heat that shoots through Alec's body at _that_ mental image almost makes him double over. He thinks of holding Magnus up, of pressing against him and feeling him shudder. He thinks of the noises the warlock would make and of long, lean legs wrapped around his waist. He imagines and he _wants_, more than he's ever wanted anyone – more than he wanted Jace, when he was shirtless and sweaty, runes glistening against his golden skin – and that fact is enough to expedite this entire transaction. He can't let this become something it's not. It will never be more than a compulsion, an unhealthy, irritating habit that pricks at his mind until he succumbs. It's stupid to pretend or to wish otherwise.

Instead of trying to come up with something to say, Alec just hauls his pants down with one quick flick of his wrist. Magnus's eyes flicker from the perfectly normal human green of his glamour, to cat-eye yellow, to entirely black, all in the span of a second. He groans, low and deep, and Alec isn't sure how many more noises like that he'll be able to handle. "I'm not sure you won't be the death of me yet," Magnus murmurs.

He leans in and brushes his lips against Alec's neck – the first time anyone has ever done so – and Alec is certain he's going to just crumple. The kiss races along his nerves until his entire body is alight with the sensation. Magus kisses his was across Alec's throat, his teeth and tongue alternately nipping and soothing, and Alec gropes for something to hold on to – something to keep him upright. His hands find purchase on the ages-old sink that's jutting out from the wall, but unfortunately, when Magnus's teeth sink into the soft hollow just behind his jaw, the sensation is overwhelming. He scrambles to control the outflow of pleasure, and rips the entire fixture from the wall.

"Fuck, you are so hot," Magnus moans before doubling his efforts. Alec ignores him, scrambling instead at the zipper of his ridiculous pants. Just as he's pulling them down, Magnus dips his head to try to capture Alec's mouth in a sloppy kiss. Alec balks, shoving him back hard enough to make him stumble.

"What the fuck?" Magnus's eyes flash again, but Alec is too busy trying not to panic that he doesn't notice.

"No kissing," he says, ignoring the incredulous look on Magnus's face.

"Fuck that," Magnus spits back. "If you think for one second that I'm going to deal with that elitist shadowhunter bullshit – "

"I don't kiss anyone," says Alec. He's blunt, honest – the only two things he can consistently be – and if Magnus wants to leave, then so be it. He has _rules. _"I've never kissed –" His voice trails off as he remembers the taste of cherry lip-gloss mixed with the tang of blood, and for an instant he thinks he might be sick.

"Not anyone?" Magnus doesn't look angry anymore, but Alec almost wishes he did. He hates the way Magnus's face is pinched and his brow is furrowed; he's looking at Alec like he's something to be pitied.

"Not anyone. Now, you have two options: keep talking, and watch me walk out and find someone who actually wants to fuck me, or come over here and do it yourself. What'll it be?"

Evidently the latter, as Magnus forgoes changing and just snaps the rest of his clothes away. Another snap and Alec is whipped around, arms against the wall and legs spread. He feels the sharp burn of humiliation, and relaxes infinitesimally.

"Bossy little thing, aren't you?" Magnus says, burying his face in the back of Alec's neck. Alec braces for the first thrust, tensing even though he knows it will just make it hurt more, but instead he feels the slow burn of one of Magnus's fingers and a tingling that hints at magical intervention. Magnus's finger slides in and out gently, provoking small, short gasps, and Alec tries to tell him to stop, that he doesn't want it like this – that it _isn't supposed to feel like this_, all heat and pleasure crackling up his spine – but he can't make himself speak. He just pants and moans and presses back into Magnus's hand until he adds a second finger, then a third.

When he finally nudges inside, it's nothing like Alec expected. Magnus is slow and thorough, and Alec can definitely see the benefits of hundreds of years of practice. He thrusts backward, his breath catching when Magnus changes the angle slightly.

As Alec gets more and more involved, the kisses on the back of his neck turn desperate, and Magnus fully bites down when Alec arches his back fully in time with each thrust. "Alec," he moans, half delirious. "What are you _doing _to me?"

Alec doesn't answer, just concentrates on controlling the pressure that's building in his abdomen. He tries desperately to find the things that usually repel him – the low grunts, the slapping flesh, the sharp smell of musk – but those are all the things that are currently driving him insane. He doesn't know what to do, and just moans brokenly, clawing at the wall like the mad kitten Magnus believes him to be. When Magnus's hand creeps around and grabs his dick, he thinks he might actually explode. Magnus manages to jerk him off, slowly and agonizingly, changing his thrusts to match the pace. It's too much and not nearly enough, and Alec is torn between wanting to push Magnus away and begging him never to stop. He's about to open his mouth – to demand something, _anything_ – but Magnus thrusts up and squeezes his hand and bites down on Alec's neck all at the same time and Alec just kind of short-circuits. He makes some sort of strangled noise, but it's in the sound of Magnus's broken moan.

The lights in the bathroom flicker, and Alec can hear a rumble of confusion from the bar that means it's probably happening out there as well. Alec is quickly distracted the warm, slick sensation of come running down his thighs, and he finally feels the rush of shame he's been expecting this whole time. With shaky limbs and a pounding heart he gathers up his jeans, not bothering to clean himself off. He tries to run the cold water, forgetting that Magnus made him rip the fucking sink of the wall, and instead scrambles for his seraph blade. Magnus, whose eyes actually glow in the dim light like a cat's, finally realizes what's happening.

"Hey," he says, grabbing Alec's arm. "Where are you going."

"I have to go." Alec bounces on the balls of his feet. "I have to go now."

"Wait." Magnus tries to tug him backward, and Alec, lost in the haze of pleasure and guilt and confusion, lashes out. His punch gets Magnus right in the jaw, sending him backward.

"Alec, what –"

Alec bolts, leaving Magnus standing naked in front of the detached sink.

"The hell is your problem," he finishes, even though he can sense that Alec is long gone. He snaps his clothes back into place and walks back out to the bar, ready to get drunk enough to forget the way Alec had looked when he admitted he had never been kissed. His thighs burn as he walks, a testament to the effort he'd had to put in to wring such delightful noises from the Shadowhunter. He remembers the outline of the stamina rune against Alec's hip, and wishes he'd taken the time to run his tongue across it. He sighs, disappointed at such a wasted opportunity, and orders up three shots of tequila to start. This is going to take a while.

* * *

**Decided to end with Magnus's POV this time. I changed from first person to third so that I wouldn't focus solely on Alec, as I am wont to do. Scold me if this happens!**

**I'm in the middle of two stories now, and uploading by popular demand. So if you like and wanna see more just tell me :) **


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